Heartsore
by yuicia
Summary: Why? Is the prevailing question. What had either of you done to deserve this? It was so random, so sudden. She seemed so healthy, you had thought she was just run down with something. She had reassured you, told you that everything would be okay. You both knew it was too late, too far progressed. She knew. And all she did was worry about you and the beautiful child. She knew.


Your heart is empty. There is nothing there to feel anymore. Your insides hurt, like they are being completely ripped apart by some phantom being, reaching inside your belly and causing more pain than necessary. Your throat is raw, you're not even sure if you can talk even if you wanted to. Your back is hunched, elbows resting on your knees, hands folded against your lips. Your eyes sting as you stare at the form across the room. It never moves, would never move again. You stare and stare, hoping if you hold your gaze long enough you'll see the telltale sign of life in an intake of breath. But the white sheet never moves. There is no air in this room. It is stagnant. Quiet. Nothing.

Your daughter tugs at your sleeve. You haven't even noticed she was there. She stands in front of you, tiny, confused, scared. She looks at you with big, brown eyes - her eyes. Tears fall down your cheeks despite yourself. You hold your daughter's face in your hands. She asks you what is wrong. Why are you crying? Why isn't mommy here?

She's too young to understand. Too young to know what death is; what death means. You place your lips to her forehead and feel her shake. You pull her into your lap, into your arms and her soft whimpers and sniffs turn into painful sobs. You cry with her, rocking her until she falls asleep.

Your eyes sting. You blink to try to wet them but it seems there are no more tears to spare. Your gaze focuses on the floor where disconnected wires fall limply to the tile. There is a presence to your left, a hand on your shoulder. It takes you minutes to tear your eyes away and look at your mother. Your mother that suddenly looks so much older, eyes rimmed red, a tissue clenched in her free hand. Her words are unspoken. You know you have to leave, follow her down the hall and hand your daughter to your brother. Down another corridor, into a small room with no windows. You sit with your mother, leg bouncing up and down. Your knee once or twice collides with the underside of the table. You aren't listening, just numbly signing page after page of legal paperwork.

You drop your mother and brother off at a little hotel late that night. Your daughter fought. Screamed. She wanted her father. Needed her father. But her father wasn't there. No, right now there stood a shell of a man not even fit to take care of himself, much less a child. Her tears put her to sleep soon enough and your mother had tucked the child beneath cheap linens. Your brother asked you if you would be okay alone.

You arrive at your home - the home you share with her. You shut your door softly and lean against it. You stare into the darkness-so much staring-you have no idea how long you stand there. The couches, the book cases, they all come slowly into focus. You heave yourself off the door and shuffle into the kitchen, blinding yourself when you flick the light switch on. You're not hungry, the phantoms are gone but a dull ache remains in your belly. Not hunger but something much more hollow. You set the kettle down on the stove and turn the heat on. Tea would be nice. Perhaps it would lull you to sleep.

Why? Is the prevailing question. What had either of you done to deserve this? It was so random, so sudden. She seemed so healthy, you had thought she was just run down with something. She had reassured you, told you that everything would be okay. You both knew it was too late, too far progressed. She knew. And all she did was worry about you and the beautiful child. She knew and yet she sent you away to save some person you didn't even know. Why? What made that random person so special? Why did they get to live and your wife-

You didn't realize that your hand lay on the belly of the kettle when a sickening smell fills your senses. You pull your hand away, studying your palm, little blisters on each fingertip and a rather large one on your palm near your wrist. You skin is peeling, bright pink flesh underneath. You hadn't even felt it. You watch your hand glow blue and the skin start to mend itself. The blisters on your fingers fade but the angry looking wound on your palm still oozes. You take the kettle off the stove, flick off the burner and fumble your way to the bathroom.

You face yourself for the first time today in the mirror of the medicine cabinet. You don't recognize this person as yourself. Too broken, too lost. Why? What happened to this person? You shove your good hand through the contents of the cabinet and pull out a tube and some gauze. She will lecture you forever if you let it get infected…

You slam the door shut and have merely a second to catch the flicker of pain, of hurt before your face fills with rage; glass, plastic and toiletries shattering their way into the sink basin. You grip the edge of the sink, cracking the porcelain, and weep. Blood and tears mix to slip down the drain and the soft blue glow illuminating the room fades to embrace you in darkness.

* * *

Your daughter has gone to live with your mother. You spend the first three weeks alone in your house. House was a better word. This place is cold, dead. It is unkempt, the kitchen littered with take-out boxes and the couch is imprinted with where you sit for hours in the dark doing nothing, your mind blank.

Your boss calls upon the start of the fourth week. He is a kind man, understanding. He suggests you go see someone. He tells you that you need to live. Need to move. Do _something._ She wouldn't have wanted this.

You know your boss is right.

Slowly, you ease yourself out the front door, down the stoop and to your car. Today you actually have a reason to venture out. You drive up to the stage above to your place of employment. You slip in quietly, ignoring the stares and mutterings from the receptionist. From the security guards. You know you look like hell. You don't care.

You spend the next three hours talking, crying, yelling to a stout, grey haired man. You feel more empty than before. So worn out. You have no idea how this is supposed to help. Twice a week. Calm, hysteria, happiness, wash, rinse, repeat. You're starting to become strung out from all these flip flopping emotions.

The man asks you to tell him stories. Stories about her. About you. About both of you. You ignore him at first, not being able to come up with the words. He pushes it out of you. He makes you tell him every fight, every positive event, every emotion you shared with her. How did you feel during your wedding? When she told you she was with child? When your daughter cried out for the first time and your wife looked at you with happy tears in her eyes?

You begin to open up to the doctor. Some days you go whole sessions without crying, simply talking about the good times. Others, you leave more worse for wear and arrive home not even caring to shed your street clothes before falling into bed.

A few weeks later, your boss asks you to return to work. To return in front of the cameras that will watch your every move. To return to save those random people you don't even know. That night you break. Big, ugly gulps of air as you remember her last words to you. How had you forgotten them? How had you forgotten her last wish? Just like that?

You pick yourself up after your sobs quiet and your cheeks dry. Your face feels tight as you venture down stairs and turn to head towards the kitchen. Your baby toe hits the corner cabinet and you curse, reaching down and grab your foot. You pause, chin resting on your knee. You let your weight fall into the cabinet door. A small laugh escapes you.

This is the first pain you've felt in months. You let it in, soak up the feeling. A hiccup of a cry comes from you and you smile. Tomorrow will be your restart. You can do this.

* * *

Everyday you return from work, you're met with an empty home-it is, indeed a home now. She would never approve of the beer cans and bottles strewn every which way but it makes you feel a little less lonely. You try to call your daughter as much as you can. You put on your best smiling face for her. She believed it for a while, but now she's able to see past it.

You flop down on the couch, beer in hand and click on the replay of today's ordeal. You watch yourself jumping to and fro, seemingly nothing wrong with this character's life except the situation at hand. TV you smiles brightly as a fellow Hero catches the target. The you on screen is fulfilling her wish. You still don't completely recognize the character clad in white and blue. You know it's you but you feel...disconnected. Like you're living a lie. Lying to her. Your heart hurts. Your head hurts.

You sleep on the couch that night, not having the strength to make your way to bed. The colors from the TV flicker behind your closed eyelids as you doze, slipping into nothingness as your brain leaves you with a silent night.

* * *

You daughter is angry with you. She's older now. So are you. She's losing memories of that day, was losing the times you would call and cry together. You know you're being a lousy father but you also know that she is being taken better care of by your mother and brother. Some days you can barely get yourself out of bed. How can you take care of this child? You love her, dearly. But your mind tells you that you would rather have her feel this pain than the neglect you would force on her.

She yells at you. Tells you that you're useless and that she hates you. In some ways you feel this is better. Better than her expecting something that you can't give anymore. You're done crying over yourself. The emptiness feels better than the self pity and doubt. The emptiness gives you room to act like a responsible human being at work. It helps you down drink after drink, attempting to kill any organs you can. It never works, of course. Your body won't let it. But you keep trying. Not to really die, no. But to feel. To feel the pain that tells you yes, you are still alive. Still breathing and moving and human.

You should have been the one in pain, not her. She that was so sweet and caring. She that spoke to you in such kind, understanding words. She that never harmed a single soul, that never wished ill on anyone. She that taught you to seek justice not by an eye for an eye but from compassion.

You should be the one six feet under and her beautiful soul still walking the face of this cold, cruel, unforgiving earth.

You're up from the couch before you know what you're doing. You throw a bottle at the wall, glass and liquid raining down and staining the light colored paint. You fist both hands in your hair and shout, kicking the coffee table over in a fit of anger. You hate doing this. You hate feeling like this but your body is in control and is intent on breaking you down.

* * *

The day your boss tells you that you no longer have a job, whatever is left of your heart breaks. You don't even know it's possible to feel this much pain again. That stupid kid from earlier humiliating you and now this? You thought you've been doing okay. Are you really that pathetic? Are you really not good to anyone anymore?

No one cares about you, do they? No one cares and they throw you away like garbage. No one was there for you anymore.

Begrudgingly you make your way to the office of a man you've never met. A pompous, rude man obviously not caring to spare your feelings. You grit your teeth through his verbal tongue lashing. You answer how you know you need to. You're thankful for the offer but you don't really understand the man's reasoning. Whatever it is, it'll have to wait as the giant monitor on the wall screams in urgent wails.  
Your mind reels though as you're sent off to don a ridiculously massive suit of armor. All these days of extreme happiness and the lowest of lows are beginning to do a number on you. You stumble out the building, not used to the weight of all the metal and gadgets on your body. You suppose it won't hurt to try things out. See if there is a chance.

Your new partner is, to say the very least, frustrating. Such a brat, unwilling to listen to your years of experience. You're starting to think this will never work. That this kid will never listen or accept you as his partner. At least this way, you muse, you don't have to grow close to this person for him just to leave you.

* * *

You find yourself genuinely smiling more these days. Your partner will always be a thorn in your side but you understand now. The younger man doesn't really hate you. He could be crass, downright ignorant to people's feelings but he's a good kid.

Sometimes you try to drag your partner out. Go drinking or sightseeing. You feel protective of him; even if he detests any and all thoughts of friendship.

But you are content. Happy to have someone there, to have another human being by your side, to just be there.

You're glad to know you're not completely alone anymore.

* * *

Both of you sit at your desks, your partner typing away, actually doing the work he was assigned. You, on the other hand, are fumbling around with the things in your drawer. Your side still hurts immensely and when you twist to throw some paper in the bin you wince, cursing under your breath. You hold your hand to your still healing wound, mouth in a tight line. You're okay with this pain-it means you're alive. That you can feel.

Your partner glances at you with a worried look. You smile through your pain, try to convince him you're okay. You aren't really, of course, but you don't need to give him anything to worry about.

This kid is okay. Honestly one of the people you're closest to. You bicker every now and again but you like it. Crave it. Survive on the interactions you have with this younger man. Your partner knows nothing of how much he means to you. How much you're willing to fall into this mentor, almost friend position.

You feel so warm around him. So alive. You eagerly await for every morning you would meet him at the office. You feel the sense of trust blossom more and more with every passing mission. You're ecstatic on the rare event that your partner agrees to just sit and talk with you. To just be with you. You tease him about little things just to watch his green eyes spark in annoyance, always sneaking a glance afterwards to see a tiny hint of a smile on his face.

You're happy. Truly happy for the first time in years.

* * *

You're twirling the wedding band you still wear around your finger. Today is a bad day. You stare out over the water, your feet dangling off the pier. It's early, the sun rising behind you cast pinks and purples into the fading night. Today you wish to melt into the inky water. Today your heart is a million pieces.

Every years it's the same. You try so hard to not be upset. To think of the good memories, not the bad. You try so hard to view your wife on your wedding day, clad in flowing white, her long dark hair lying like strands of silk on her shoulders. Every time though, your memories slip into a sterile hospital room, ashen lips that would never speak again, closed eyelids hiding eyes that held the depth of life itself. Cold limp fingers and orange pajamas that she spent her last few days in.

You feel horrible that this is the only way you can think about her. Today, of all days, when you should be celebrating the life she lived, not mourning her passing. You barely notice that the tears have started again and are rolling down your cheeks like rivers.  
A warm hand falls on your shoulder and squeezes reassuringly. You wrap your fingers around your partner's. The younger man sits down next to you, locking your fingers together and leaning his shoulder against yours.

You sit there in silence, watching the sky brighten and gulls float above the calm water. The man next to you has a way of calming you. A way of just being there.

"Kotetsu?"

You look over, this rising sun back lighting your partner's hair, beautiful gold stained red. You're sure your face is a mess but the other man cups your cheek with his free hand, rubbing away tears with his thumb. He stares at you, his eyebrows are pulled together in concern, eyes soft with emotion. He puts his forehead to yours and breathes.

"Everything will be okay."

And you believe it.

* * *

I haven't written anything in what seems like years. So this probably is really bad.  
Under different circumstances, I've felt the hollowness and lack of pain.  
I've felt the invigorating rush of pain after months of not feeling.  
When you loose someone important you're not yourself for a very long time.  
Eventually things get better.  
You're always going to have bad days, no matter how long ago it was.  
But things will be okay.  
Because at the end of the day, you're still here.  
And if you realize it or not,  
there is someone waiting to help you through your pain when you're ready.


End file.
